"How fortunate it would be for you, now, to have him still!" he observed slowly, with a thoughtful air, casting a vague glance into vacancy over my head. And he added more slowly still: "I loved your father very much...." I thought I detected a new brightness in his eyes at this moment. "And now God has taken away our mother also!" exclaimed Macha. Dropping her napkin on the tea-tray, she pulled out her handkerchief and began to cry. "Yes, there have been terrible changes in this house!" He turned away as he spoke. Then, a moment after: "Katia Alexandrovna," he said, in a louder voice, "play me something!" I liked the tone of frank, friendly authority with which he made this request; I rose and went to him. "Here, play me this," said he, opening my Beethoven at the adagio of the sonata, _Quasi una fantasia_. "Let us see how you play," he continued, taking his cup of tea to drink in a corner of the room. I know not why, but I felt it would be impossible either to refuse or to put forward a plea of playing badly; on the contrary, I submissively sat down at the piano and began to play as well as I could, although I was afraid of his criticism, knowing his excellent taste in music. In the tone of this _adagio_ there was a prevalent sentiment which by association carried me away to the conversation before tea, and, guided by this impression, I played tolerably well, it seemed. But he would not let me play the _scherzo_. "No, you will not play it well," said he, coming to me, "stop with that first movement,--which has not been bad! I see that you comprehend music." This praise, certainly moderate enough, delighted me so that I felt my color rise. It was something so new and agreeable to me to have the friend, the _equal_ of my father, speak to me alone, seriously, and no longer as though he were talking to a child as he used to do. He talked to me about my father, telling me how they suited each other, and what a pleasant life they had led together while I was occupied solely with my playthings and school-books; and what he said revealed my father to me in a light quite new to me, for the first time I seemed to know fully his simple goodness. My guardian questioned me as to what I liked, what I read, what I intended doing, and gave me advice. I had no longer beside me the gay talker, delighting in badinage, but a man serious, frank, friendly, for whom I felt involuntary respect, while at the same time I was conscious of being in perfect sympathy with him. This consciousness was pleasing to me, nevertheless there was a certain tension in conversing with him. Every word I uttered left me timid; I wished so much to deserve in my own person the affection which at present I only received because I was my father's daughter! After putting Sonia to bed, Macha rejoined us, and began to pour out to Sergius Mikaïlovitch her lamentations on the score of my apathy, which resulted she complained in my rarely having a single word to say.